Interstices
by HaiJu
Summary: Between-stories. A oneshot series set after, before, and during the show, exploring the lives and deaths of different characters. Now featuring Crank Call: Paulina answers a late call from a strange number, and it might just make her night.
1. Latte Fatale

_Welcome to my oneshot series! You may recognize the first chapter, which was originally posted as a stand-alone; I'm using it as the jumping-off point for this series because it suits the themes I want to explore. They are between-stories, explorations of what may have happened within the canon we know. Most of them are crossposts from Tumblr. These are unrelated character explorations, so don't look for continuity between chapters. Some of them are sad, some happy; all, I hope, will make for a good read. _

_-Hj_

* * *

Interstices

* * *

**Door One: Latte Fatale**

* * *

_Lancer goes out for coffee with a former co-worker. A very attractive, successful and intelligent woman by the name of Penelope Spectra. Is this just a friendly chat? Or does she want something more?_

* * *

Lancer adjusted his tie and leaned back in his seat, trying not to think about how the polo he wore bunched uncomfortable and unflattering around his sagging waistline. This was his first date in... well, a long time, and he didn't want to waste it in pointless self-consciousness.

The back of the little coffee shop was dimly lit, cozy and inviting. The woman perched on the chair opposite him stood out in striking contrast to the soft environment, bright, vivacious, self-assured. He had always admired that about her, the ability to seem simultaneously alert and perfectly at ease anywhere she went.

"I was a little surprised to get a call from you," Lancer said with his most charming smile. "You left your position so suddenly, despite the great success of that last performance."

She took a delicate sip of her mocha cappuccino and set it on the table, running her manicured fingernail around the rim. "You know how it is, Mr. Lancer, duty calls. I can't rest on my laurels when other schools need my special touch."

"I understand perfectly what you mean. And please, call me Edward."

"Of course, Edward." He was awarded with a dazzling smile. "But then you'll have to call me Penelope."

"Did you study English?"

"English, with a double minor in science and dance," he responded.

"How unusual. I would have taken you for someone who favored the theater."

"Only as an appreciative audience member, Ms-that is, Penelope. I don't have the projection to do a stage performance justice."

"Yet you do perfectly well as a teacher. You have a fine voice."

"Yes, well. Practice does improve our faults."

"I am a great lover of literature, Edward. Though you can imagine considering my vocation, my reading trends toward the philosophers. Kant, Nietzsche...Freud if I need some entertainment." Her laugh tinkled like glass breaking.

"Truth is stranger than fiction, they say."

"Mmm yes, because fiction is required to make sense," she finished the quote. "Mark Twain, was it?"

"Common misconception. It was Lord Byron who said it first, and a century earlier."

"There's nothing new under the sun." She pointed the long ice cream spoon at him in triumph. "Solomon."

"Ecclesiastes, and yes, that text was attributed to King Solomon. It's funny he would say that, when he had everything the world could offer."

"He grew old," she said, voice dropping low and meditative. "Age has a way of making even the shiniest things tarnish."

Lancer nodded. "Unless you're Midas, and have the magic touch."

"Ah, but that was the lesson in the story; Midas destroyed everything even as he made it valuable. His own daughter was turned to nothing but a pillar of gold. Gold is dead, and there's nothing pretty about that. I'd rather follow Ponce de León."

"The fountain of youth? Someone as beautiful as you wouldn't need that kind of frivolity."

"You do know how to flatter a girl, Edward." Her emerald eyes flicked in the direction of the store entrance. "It's getting dark, I should be heading back to my hotel. Would you like to take me there? It's not far, just a walk through the park." The way she said park, soft, expertly colored lips quirking up just a bit at the corners, sent a little thrill up his spine.

He pushed back his chair, brushing the crumbs and wrinkles out of his shirt and picking up his coat. "Nothing would make me happier."

As they strolled along, Penelope chattered about the parks she'd seen in her travels, how Amity Park's was a particularly nice one, whether Lancer came here often.

As the buildings petered out, so did the conversation, lulling into an amiable silence. It was just past twilight, and the street lights were blinking on, casting a warm yellow glow into the green shadows of the park. It was nearly deserted, except for an occasional dog walker. The weather had turned, leaving it too chilly for most couples.

When Lancer asked her if she was cold, Penelope just smiled. "Why don't you put your arm around me?"

"Well, I, I could, I suppose, I-" Lancer tripped over his own feet and had to throw out his arms for balance. She laughed, and caught his arm, slipping it over her shoulder and tucking herself in near his body. He let his arm drape over her slim shoulders. She kept hold of his hand, carelessly. Her hand felt like ice-or marble, rather, perfectly sculpted, as if some zealous eye had worked out every detail.

He hoped his smile wasn't as foolish as it felt.

They walked on. The sun vanished behind distant buildings, leaving the evening a soft, cool grey, dotted by yellow pools where the streetlights illuminated the sidewalk. Crickets sang in the grass. A few stars outshone the city glare, dotting the velvet sky above.

They strolled in what, Lancer thought, was a very companionable silence. Penelope stopped. She let his hand drop and tipped her head to one side, studying him with the tiniest of smiles playing one her lips. She glanced left, then right; Lancer followed her gaze. There was no one else on this secluded loop of trail. They were alone.

"Penelope… Ms. Spectra," Lancer faltered, tugging at the tie which seemed to hug too tightly against his adam's apple. "While this evening has been pleasant, I would...it would probably be best that…"

Ms. Spectra tsked, shaking her head. "You're too much of a gentleman, Edward."

Her gaze had changed, somehow. The glittering emeralds framed by dark lashes were no longer warm. They had the intensity of a tiger's.

Lancer resisted the completely irrational urge to back away. His heart thudded in his chest, but he could not completely convince himself that it was because of the close proximity of a beautiful woman as they stood, alone, behind a screen of trees, in a quiet corner of the park.

Scalding lips brushed his neck. "Do you know why I brought you here?"

"I—I—" Lancer flushed scarlet. He wanted to melt right into the ground, but he couldn't seem to pull away. It was as if the shadows of the park had locked around him, constricting his arms and pinning them to his sides.

"To _use _you." Lancer jerked in surprise.

Penelope stepped back, surveying him with lazy green eyes. Then she threw back her head and laughed. Perfect white teeth flashed. "You poor, fat, desperate little man. I can't decide what's more hilarious; that you actually believed that I was interested, or that you ever imagined that someone like me would kiss a hairy, shapeless, poverty-stricken lump like you."

The ground reeled under Lancer's feet. Embarrassment, confusion and anger swirled around him in a dark cloud. "I don't understand what you're doing, Penelope," he choked out. "Why lead me on?"

She chuckled, musical and cruel. "Because. You're easy prey."

He sank to his knees. Pain pressed on his chest; his breath came short and fast. Was he having a heart attack? Penelope watched him without a flicker of surprise. Had she… done this to him? She hadn't touched him. Unless there had been something in his drink…

The woman's hand dropped on his shoulder, tightening with inhuman strength, nails biting through his shirt and digging into his shoulderblade.

"I have to thank you, my dear," she purred, leaning in close so that their lips almost touched. She seemed infinitely more beautiful now, radiating health and youth from every pore. "I would have been lost without you. Now look at me." Penelope smiled. "Who knew that you'd have that much vigor buried under all that flab. With this, I can-"

She cut off with an odd, strangled squawk.

Green claws sprouted out of Penelope's chest. She shrieked, her hands flying off Lancer's shoulders to grasp at the glittering green blades. Lancer gasped in a breath of air, like he'd been underwater and had suddenly broken the surface.

"I'm done playing hide and go creep," an echoing, teenaged voice said. Danny Phantom appeared over Penelope's shoulder, his eyes green with ghostly fury.

Penelope's flawless face twisted with rage. "Not you!"

"Yeah, me. Haven't you noticed? You're out past curfew!"

The claws pulled. Penelope's skin stretched horribly, then tore asunder. Lancer flinched, throwing up his hands. Instead of a fountain of gore, it exposed inky blackness.

The skin that had been Penelope Spectra fluttered in tatters to the sidewalk, leaving a dark silhouette standing-or rather, hovering- in its stead. Scarlet eyes glimmered out of a shadowy face. Fangs parted in a furious howl. It twisted, claws outstretched, slashing at the ghost boy. He darted back, tossing aside a heavy pair of gloves-Lancer could see now that this was the source of the claws-and reached for a silver cylinder clipped to his belt.

His eyes flicked to Lancer, widened, darted back to the thing that had been Penelope Spectra.

"You think you can catch me now, freak?" she hissed. "I'm stronger now."

Phantom's eyes narrowed. "Actually, yeah I can. You might have gotten a little more powerful, but I wasn't just kicking my heels while you were gone, either."

Another voice chimed in, this from time behind Lancer. "I've been practicing."

He looked up and to his surprise found a second Phantom hovering just above him.

The dark ghost twisted around, claws raised, but a bright green beam hit her squarely in the chest. She shrieked. Then bright blue rings punctured her from behind and sucked every last trace of darkness away, inside the device Phantom had taken from his belt. He capped the silver cylinder and re-clipped it to his belt.

The second Phantom drifted over to his double, high-fived, then melted away into vapor and drifted inside the ghost's chest. Phantom shook his head, going cross-eyed for a moment. "Ugh, still feels weird." A cold hand grabbed Lancer's and pulled him to his feet. "You okay?"

"_Maltese Falcon! _She was... she was..." Lancer sat down heavily on the park bench. She was a ghost? Penelope... Miss Spectra, a ghost?

"I caught her pet assistant this morning. Managed to get a couple of hits on her, but she slipped away. Must've been trying to get her strength back. I guess…" He hesitated, looking at Lancer. "I guess she was looking for an easy target."

Easy target. The words echoed what Penelope had told him just moments before. That was him. Desperate. Alone. Not worth a real woman's attention.

"Uh, Mr. Lancer? You okay?"

"She tricked me," he said at last. Self-loathing and disbelief trickled into his tone.

"Yeah, she does that," Phantom muttered darkly. "That's where she gets her power and good looks, you know. Making people miserable. Sucking the life out of them. It keeps her young and human-looking."

"Oh," was all Lancer could find to say.

The ghost studied for him a moment, then to Lancer's surprise, sighed and dropped onto the park bench just inches away from the teacher. A chill ran up Lancer's bare arm. Phantom rummaged in his backpack and pulled out a chocolate bar, offering it to Lancer.

"It helps," he said simply. "Coffee, too. And a hot shower."

Lancer tried to process this, blinking at the ghost boy's brown backpack. It seemed oddly familiar. "Do ghosts shower?"

"Only when they have to," he returned with a grin.

An evasive answer, but Lancer decided he was too tired to try to puzzle out all the implications at the moment. He accepted the bar and looked down at it with a heavy sigh. "Now all I need is a cat, and my pathetic old bachelor lifestyle will be complete."

"Hey, uh, it's not all that bad, you know?" An icy hand patted his shoulder awkwardly.

Lancer could have laughed at the absurdity of it all, if it hadn't felt so humiliating.

"She got me too, at first," Phantom said.

Lancer's eyebrows shot up. Phantom looked fourteen, maybe fifteen. Younger than a lot of his own students. "You mean she—"

"Well, ah, no," Phantom waved his arms with an awkward grin. "Not like *that*, you know, ew, she's like twenty years older than me. She just... told me things. About myself, and my friends. Fed me lies that sounded way too accurate. She said I was a loser, a freak. I didn't belong anywhere. That nothing I did would ever make people in this town think otherwise."

Lancer eyed his strange companion; the ghost gripped the thermos in his hand, glaring at the display blinking _OCCUPIED_. The bowed shoulders and troubled expression made Lancer wonder if Phantom wasn't still half convinced. "And you believed her."

"At first, yeah. I was lucky enough to have friends that set me straight." He shook his head and shoved the thermos roughly into his bag. "Spectra's good at that. Really, really good. She finds whatever it is you worry about, whatever it is you're scared of in yourself, and she rips it wide open. Makes you feel like there's nothing else left."

"But she's wrong," Lancer objected.

He glanced up with a small smile. "Yeah, she is."

Lancer found himself smiling back.

Phantom stood up and stretched, extending his fingers with a series of pops. He felt so bizarrely real and present for a ghost, Lancer thought; if it wasn't for the eerie glow that lit up the growing twilight and the way his feet brushed only the tips of the grass, Phantom could have been any other teenager at the end of a long day. The ghost trotted across the sidewalk and scooped up the gloves, depositing them in his bag with the thermos.

"Look." He turned to face Lancer, clear-eyed and determined. "I don't know exactly what she said to you, but I can tell you that she never sees the whole picture. She doesn't know you. She can't, because she's just empty inside. You saw it-nothing but darkness. All she really has is greed, selfishness, and a weird thing for soy lattes."

"Cappuccinos, actually." Laner leaned back, let out a gusty sigh, and bit off a chunk of chocolate. He chewed thoughtfully, appreciating the bittersweet flavor of the candy. The ghost

boy was right; the cloud had lifted a little. "I should have known not to trust a woman who couldn't appreciate the more refined beverage."

"Heh, you would be a tea drinker."

"It's the drink of sages and philosophers, so I'm in good company."

Phantom gave him a knowing grin. "Except for finals week. That's all coffee."

"How did you-"

"Hey, somebody has to keep the lunch lady out of the teacher's lounge. Plus I'd always wondered what you guys did in there."

"Do you... haunt the school?"

"More like it haunts _me_," he muttered. Suddenly he brightened. "Actually hey, since I just, you know, saved your life and all, can you do me a favor? Go easy on your fourth period Lit class, okay?"

Fourth period. Suddenly Lancer knew exactly where he'd seen that backpack before. It belonged-or had once belonged-to Tucker Foley.

"This wouldn't have anything to do with those friends you mentioned, would it?"

"That's not, um…" Phantom's eyes flicked around desperately. They fell on Lancer's watch and he sprang up. "Crap, gotta go! Uh, important ghost hero duties to attend to. Anyway, just think about it, okay? Bye!"

The ghost boy took off in a streak of black and silver, up through the trees and out of sight. Lancer stared after him for a long moment. He slowly, thoughtfully finished his chocolate bar. Like most people in Amity Park, he held a general distrust of ghosts. Especially since Casper High had proven to be a supernatural hot spot. Still, there was something… different about that ghost boy. He reminded Lancer of one of his students more than a supernatural creature.

He'd been meaning to hold a pop quiz tomorrow in fourth period. Maybe it could wait until Monday.

Lancer strolled off, whistling.

* * *

_~ end ~_

* * *

**A/N:**

A short little fic inspired by the Spectra prompt for Phanniemay earlier this year. It just takes me five months to actually finish these things... I hope you enjoyed it! **ETA:** Now part of a new oneshot series! Onward!

-Hj


	2. The Haunting of Tucker

**Door Two: The Haunting of Tucker**

* * *

_Tucker didn't learn about ghosts from the Fentons._

* * *

"Your grandmother's been sick for a long time," his dad said.

Tucker tried to picture Grandmother sick and frail. It was impossible for his seven-year-old mind to conjure. Grandmother, to him, was like a big angry buzzard, ferocious and demanding. She wielded her cane more like a club than a walking aid, and the oxygen tubes she'd started wearing in the last few months made her seem to Tucker like Darth Vader, rasping in regulated breaths like some mechanical beast.

He was wearing his Sunday best, a suit with a real tie instead of a clip-on, that his mother had tightened. She'd pushed away his hand when he'd tried to tug it loose. Grandmother couldn't abide any sloppiness.

"We're going in to say goodbye," Mom added. "So be on your best behavior and try not to make too much noise."

Then they all paraded into Grandmother's room, the whole family, Tucker's mother and father and his uncles and cousins, and a couple of great-aunts, too. The hospital bed was vast and set high on its wheeled rails, like an antiseptic throne. There Grandmother half lay, half sat, in a red quilted dressing gown with her hair done up flawlessly.

To Tucker, it didn't seem like Grandmother at all. More like a weird, shriveled creature that had completely replaced face was grey and slack, as if the muscles couldn't quite pull the mouth closed or give expression to the meticulously plucked eyebrows. Yet her dark eyes glittered like obsidian in the resinous pits beneath her brow, crackling with fire.

A shaky hand reached out toward him, the youngest. His mother nudged him forward. The grip felt more like the talon of a vulture—cold, leathery, relentless—than the hand of a dying woman.

"Give us a kiss," the thing on the bed said.

Tucker yanked his hand free and bolted.

He tore past all the relatives in their Sunday best, dashed through the hall, down the stairs, and ran all the way to the lobby and out to the parking lot. He stood puffing and blowing on the sidewalk and tried to ignore the prickling on the back of his neck.

Hospitals were scary, Tucker thought. He wouldn't go back inside, not if the whole family tried to drag him.

* * *

Two months later, it was Tucker in the bed with the high rails, being rolled through the halls and into a sterile, white room. He'd developed a cold, and the cold had settled in his lungs, and now they were calling it some complicated name—pneumonia—and said that he had to stay in the hospital for at least a few days. If Tucker wasn't so feverish and exhausted that he could barely move, he would have fought them tooth and nail.

It was night. Tucker woke with a shiver, a sudden chill prickling over skin beaded with sweat. The lights were out; his mother had fallen asleep on the couch. She was only a soft, blanketed collection of curves in the faint streetlight that came through the half-open blinds.

The shape blurred. Tucker blinked, rubbed at his eyes, but it wouldn't clear. Slowly, but with a deliberate, mesmerizing certainty, the light was blotted out. Someone was standing there, between him and the light, a dark silhouette that filled his vision.

A wrinkled, icy claw gripped his hand. "Give us a kiss," the thing hissed.

Tucker would have screamed if he could get enough air to breathe. Instead he could only watch, wide-eyed and terrified, as the shadows somehow lit themselves, congealing into a familiar, imposing figure.

"Grandmother," he wheezed out.

"You left without saying goodbye," she said, in angry, unforgiving tones. "That kind of behavior is unacceptable. I'll make you into a proper young man, if it's the last thing I do. To start with, quit being such a layabout and get out of this death trap."

* * *

When he told his mom the next day, she only shook her head. She didn't seem to see the dark shape standing, brandishing her cane, in the corner of the room.

"You have a fever, Tuck." Mom smiled through her worry and squeezed his hand. "A bad one. It's a dream, that's all. It'll go away."

Relief spread through him at this totally logical explanation. Tucker clung to the idea, and did everything he could to get better. He shortened his hospital stay by two days just on sheer willpower.

The fever went away. They let him go home. But the shadow, sometimes hovering in the background, sometimes almost blinding him by its closeness, never did.

* * *

On his eighth birthday, Tucker asked for radios—three of them.

"Grandma doesn't like technology," was his only explanation, which made no sense to his parents. But his dad obliged by building a little shelf over Tucker's bed, and they bought him two radios that he could set to white noise, and a digital alarm clock.

Tucker could sleep, finally; Grandmother's constant muttering and moaning became a distant background noise. When he woke in the morning after the first real good night's sleep he'd had since the hospital, Tucker grinned and stretched. He could fight back.

"Get up and eat your breakfast, you good for nothing lazy child," she demanded.

Technology became his refuge. It didn't make Grandmother go away completely, but whenever electronics were near, she'd retreat, muttering darkly in the background.

When he was eight, Tucker built a robot that could vacuum up toenail clippings. He tinkered with it hour after hour, daydreaming about one that could suck up ghosts, too, and solve all his problems. Grandmother looked on with black disapproval.

"No good will come of it, messing around with those tinker toys," she would grumble in her shaky, echoing voice.

He'd smile and turn up the radio a little higher.

* * *

It was show and tell day in second grade. Tucker had brought his robot. The other kids had more ordinary things, though Tucker thought they were almost as cool; a stuffed rabbit, a model plane, a skateboard. He was sure that his would be the most exciting—and maybe he could show even Grandmother that it was something really cool.

It was almost Tucker's turn. He tapped his toes under the desk in anticipation. Grandmother tsked her disapproval. Her hand seemed to grip harder at his shoulder, but he didn't care.

They were going by last names, A to Z. Dash Baxter. Kelly Dunmore.

After what felt like eons, they got to the very last one before Foley, Danny Fenton. He was a skinny kid, with freckles, blue eyes, and jet-black hair. He carried a cardboard box almost as big as he was, and opened it with a scattering of foam peanuts.

"Dad calls it a Specter-B-Gone," the boy explained, dragging the thing out of the box and dropping it onto the table with a heavy clunk. It was about a foot square, an odd-shaped device of soldered-together bits of metal and plastic. "I helped build it," he added proudly. "My dad let me do some of the welding, and we put the circuit boards together too!"

"What does it do?"

"I d'nno how well it works, but it's supposed to get rid of bad auras, or something." He flicked a switch and the thing came to life with a shrill whirr.

Grandma threw up her hands in disapproving horror. "Ehh? What's that thing? I don't like it, young man! Move away from it!"

"Are you sure that's safe?" The teacher asked, eyeing it.

"Oh sure, Mom checks everything me 'n Dad do. She wouldn't let me out of the house with it otherwise."

"What's an aura?" Somebody else asked.

Danny scratched his neck with a shy grin. "Beats me. I think it's supposed to be the energy people make, their electro-something... Inventions don't always turn out like they're supposed to. I don't think it actually does anything to your aura or whatever, but if you touch it, it'll make your hair stand up. See?" He put his fingertip on a metal ring jutting out of the top. There was a little spark, and his short, messy black hair stood on end, making him look like a small porcupine.

The class oohed in excitement.

"Can we touch it?"

The boy beamed. "Sure! It kinda shocks a little, but it doesn't hurt or anything."

Tucker crowded in with the rest; there was something fascinating about all the intricate little circuits and panels... and why was it green? He touched it. Just like the boy had said, there was a little crackle and the spark of a static shock. A tingle seemed to run over his entire body.

"Mercy!" Grandmother made one shrill exclamation of surprise, then vanished with a pop.

Tucker blinked. Glanced around at the suddenly bright classroom. His jaw dropped in shock. She was... gone. Completely and totally gone. The daylight streaming in the window was blindingly bright without the gloom of her presence. His ears rang with her absence. It was wonderful. It was too good to be true.

The rest of the day passed in a happy haze. The other kids were _almost_ as impressed by his toenail-vacuuming robot as they were with the Fenton kid's static machine, and none of the other show and tells came anywhere close.

* * *

Tucker chattered his way through supper, to the delight of his parents, who had begun to think their energetic child was gone for good.

It was just as Tucker began drifting off to sleep, happy but exhausted, when he heard that shrill, familiar grumble. "Leave your grandmother out in the cold, would you? Some grandchild you are,

Tucker Foley. Show some respect!"

He groaned and rolled over, pulling the pillow over his head. It was no use. She was back.

* * *

"Wait," Tucker huffed as he ran after the other boy, who was walking down the sidewalk toward the bus stop. "Hey, wait!"

The kid finally slowed down, and Tucker caught up, panting for breath and wishing he'd remembered to bring his inhaler.

"What's your name?" Tucker gasped. It was a stupid thing to say, he couldn't forget the boy's name if he tried. It just came spilling out.

Grandmother scoffed. "And you're supposed to be intelligent. Stand up straight! Stop asking stupid questions!"

The boy looked back at him quizzically."I'm Danny. You're the robot guy, right?"

"Yeah. I'm Tucker. Tucker Foley." He gulped in one last breath and straightened up, blurting out his real question before he lost the nerve. "Could I... could I see that thing again? Your Dad's invention thingy?"

"Uh, sure! You've gotta come over to my house though."

"Let me call my mom!"

"You have your own cell phone?" Danny said, rather enviously.

"A kiddie phone," Tucker said with a shrug. "It's just got a couple of numbers that it lets you call."

"You'll give yourself cancer," Grandmother interjected. "You want to die young?"

Tucker ignored the shadowy hand that tried to snatch it from his grasp and dialed home. "Mom, can I go visit a friend?"

* * *

The Fenton house, as it turned out, was on the corner of a street barely a block from where the Foleys lived. It was a big house, three-storied, with some strange technology crowded onto the roof. A faint hum seemed to emanate from the entire building.

"I wouldn't go in there, young man," Grandmother commanded. "It looks disreputable."

Any nervousness Tucker had felt disappeared in the face of this direct order. He set his jaw stubbornly and stepped over the threshold.

Grandmother hung back.

Tucker walked inside, and Danny shut the door. When Tucker looked back, nothing came seeping through. She hadn't followed. A slow smile spread over his face. Whatever this place was, he liked it.

"So your parents invent stuff that gets rid of ghosts?" he asked, craning his neck to peer down the stairwell. Kids weren't allowed downstairs without the grownups, Danny had said, but he could catch just glimpses of strange and amazing devices—including something huge and half-built, embedded deep in the basement wall.

Danny shrugged, already bored and tugging at Tucker's sleeve to urge him up the stairs. "Mostly things to try to find them, actually."

Tucker shuddered. "Why would anyone want to do that?"

"Well of course ghosts aren't actually real," Danny said with all the authority of an eight-year-old, rolling his eyes. "Jazz says that they're a... a "manifestation of Mom and Dad's obsession with the paranormal" or something. But the tech's cool! And some of it actually works!"

"R-right," Tucker said, with a nervous glance at the shadowy blur that he half-imagined, standing under the street lamp on the other side of the street. "Hey, do you think I could take some of this stuff home with me? I want to..." he thought furiously for a good excuse. "To make more robots! They'd make great robot parts. All I have are the regular pieces from the kits, not custom stuff."

Danny grinned. "Sure! Dad's got a bunch of old inventions in the shed, he won't miss one or two. You wanna go check it out?"

* * *

"He's such a sensitive kid," Mrs. Foley said to Maddie as they watched the two boys playing in the yard.

She'd come to pick up her son, but when the two boys had begged for fifteen more minutes she'd agreed to a cup of coffee with Mrs. Fenton on the back porch. They'd chatted pleasantly; Maddie seemed like a level-headed enough woman and a conscientious mother, even if her clothing and career choice were little eccentric.

"Ever since his grandmother died, he hasn't been the same. Would hardly leave his room, and everything seemed to scare him."

"Were they close?" Maddie asked, taking another sip of her coffee.

"That's the strange thing; my husband's mother wasn't the most... maternal type of person. She ruled the family while she was alive, but it was out of respect, not love, you understand. She'd always taken a particular interest in Tucker, but I didn't think he felt so strongly about her. But it was the first death Tucker experienced, and then he was in the hospital himself shortly after. I think that alone had a profound effect on him."

"It's hard when they have to face it so young," Maddie agreed. "I'm not looking forward to that talk with Danny and Jazz." Her own parents were in good health, though they lived on the other side of the country.

"Kids are resilient, though. They bounce back. Tucker seems really happy today."

Maddie smiled. Danny was pointing out the anti-ghost perimeter, a thin, electromagnetically charged wire that ran along the back fence, explaining it with animated gestures while Tucker looked on in wide-eyed interest. "It's nice that Danny's found a playmate that likes technology as much as he does. Your son is welcome anytime."

* * *

_~ end ~_


	3. Say It

**Door Three: Say It**

* * *

_All he had to do was say it._

* * *

"Say my name!"

"Babe-"

"No," she snapped. "It's not babe. Not hottie. Not _do it harder_, and sure as hell not _Amy_."

"You _look_ like Amy," he said peevishly, crossing his arms. "How many chicks would dye their hair that stupid color?"

"You _bastard,_" she screeched. "You told me I was special. You _singled me out_."

He didn't flinch at her voice. He just scowled and stood up from the bed, stretching long, skinny limbs. The vine-wreathed skull tattooed on his pec stretched into a lipless leer. He scratched at his nose, making the silver ring there catch the light. "Don't you think you're overreacting?"

"Say my name, or I swear, I'll-" her eyes cast around and fell on the open door. She darted out and in one fluid movement swung herself up on the cast iron balcony railing. "I'll jump off right now!"

"Crazy bitch," he snapped, irritation curdling his pasty complexion.

A cool night breeze wafted over her bare shoulders, lifting the black lace of her lingerie and tickling her thighs. In the distance cars beeped and rumbled; somewhere a siren started up, then faded away.

The tiny balcony overlooked the hotel pool, a sapphire jewel in a jungle of drab concrete, glittering enticingly three stories below. It would be a tough jump-a crazy one. But she was a thrill-seeker; she _was _tough and crazy. She'd done crazier stunts before. How else would she have gotten the attention of one of the top punk rockers in the country?

He'd taken her hand and pulled her up onto the stage. His hand clasping her bare waist as he sang the final song had sent shivers up her spine. He'd whispered flatteries in her ear at the afterparty as vodka sang in her brain. He'd talked her up, all the way up to this fancy hotel suite and that damn king size bed. She had talent; they needed a female singer. She suited him just fine. _You're so good, Amy… _

Her hands shook with rage; and she'd actually _believed _him. "Say my name! Say it!"

"Can't expect me to remember all my groupies," he muttered, scratching at his boxers. Glancing at her, he smirked. "Besides, you had a good time, right? Who cares if I don't know your name?"

_Arrogant bastard. _She jumped.

That wiped the smirk right off his face. Her lips curved up in satisfaction as his stupid, slack-jawed, sheep-eyed stare flashed past her. _That's right, dipstick. I actually did it._

She'd make her spectacular dive and walk away. She'd smear his name wherever she went. He'd never show his face outside of a concert again. She looked down at the cool blue water rushing up to meet her

It wasn't there.

Gray concrete filled her vision. She hadn't leapt far enough. Fear hammered through the adrenaline. A scream dragged from her lips without permission from her brain. Wind roared in her ears as she twisted, reaching back toward the balcony-too far, too late.

He was leaning over, reaching for her. Mouth open in a shout.

_Did he say it? _She couldn't hear.

* * *

~ end ~

* * *

**A/N: **

I thought about making this longer, but really that would just be stretching out the story. There's an existing semicanon for how Ember met her end, but I never felt that it suited her personality. This is my take.

Thanks for your reviews everyone! I'm glad you liked the Tucker story. :)

-Hj


	4. If Atlas Slept

**If Atlas Slept**

* * *

_As a technician on an important but uneventful space mission for NASA, Danny couldn't be happier. But things aren't always as they seem... and his ghost hunting past might be closer than he realized._

* * *

The headset wrapped around his head crackled to life. "Fenton, this is Houston, over."

"Houston, this is Fenton," Danny responded automatically, a small smile on his lips. "Just taking a morning stroll."

Stroll in this case meaning floating in the vast, scintillating void that was outer space. He drifted at the end of the space station's tether, his long legs stabilizing his movements like a swimmer in a bottomless sea.

The earth hung off to his right, two hundred miles distant but still nearly filling his line of sight. The eastern hemisphere had just fallen into shadow, leaving the western hemisphere splashed in a bright patchwork of blue ocean, green land and white clouds.

"How are things down there?"

"Wet and stormy," the control operator replied. "Why don't you send us some of that sunshine?" Danny glanced down at the swirl of clouds that currently covered south Florida. He tried to imagine the sheets of rain, the wind lashing across parking lots and yanking boats out of their moorings, the palm trees bent in half.

Space was calm, empty; thousands of miles of silence and open air. It was hard to get a grasp on that kind of chaos while surrounded by such perfect peace.

"There's plenty of sun up here to go around." Danny could feel the heat of the sun even through the insulated suit, like a vast, warm hand pressed against his back. "I should've packed more sunscreen."

"Fenton, we've got a reporter here to talk about the space program. Feel like doing a little Q&amp;A?"

"Why not?"

There was the click and rustle of the transmission being transferred. A female voice cleared her throat. "Ah, good morning Mr. Fenton."

"Good morning! And call me Danny. Mr. Fenton is my father."

"Of course, Danny. And speaking of your parents, how do they feel about you volunteering for the first year-long solo stay in the space station?"

"They couldn't be prouder," Danny said with a grin. He still had bruises from the bear hug Dad had given him when he'd announced his acceptance. "My parents have always supported me. It's been my dream to go to space ever since I was a kid."

"The space station you're on isn't much bigger than a mobile home, right?"

"It reminds me of a certain RV that my parents fixed up," Danny responded. "After all those family vacations with four people crammed into that old rustbucket, this feels like the lap of luxury. Besides, you know what they say about real estate." He gestured to the stars that surrounded him, even though the reported couldn't see it. "Location, location, location."

"What do you like the most about being up there?"

"Not the food, that's for sure. Meatloaf surprise at my high school cafeteria had better flavor than this stuff. You getting that, Houston?"

"Loud and clear, Fenton," the operator interjected dryly. "We'll pass on your complaints to the chef."

"But in all seriousness, tell us what you love about space. Was it everything you'd dreamed about when you were young?"

"Yeah, it is. It really is. It's..." Danny licked his lips, trying to find the words to put to the feeling—the deep-seated contentment that he could only seem to find miles away from the planet. "You hear people talk about the weight of the world, right? It's just the opposite of that. Perfect peace. Perfect freedom. Anything you're worried about, _whoosh_. It's gone. It can't burden you."

He gave the tether a gentle tug, turning around. With the earth at his back and the sun flashing bright on his left, perfect nothingness ahead of him, just vastness and space and the glittering array of stars layered on stars. It was infinite, grand, beautiful. All the things he'd dreamed about, and more.

"I wonder if Atlas ever got tired?" Danny murmured, half forgetting the faceless reporter on the other end of the line. "Trudging along with the whole world on his shoulders… did he ever get a break? Maybe he just got sick of it all and flung the world away, and that's why we're hurtling through space like we are. Or maybe he just fell asleep, and it drifted off all by itself."

"That's very philosophical for someone with a degree in astrophysics."

Danny laughed. "Scientists make the best dreamers, ma'am. Our imaginations have a lot to work with. I come out here, look at the stars, see the size of the the universe, and I guess... I guess in the grand scheme of the galaxy, little worries don't seem as important." He shook his head with a half-grin. "Okay, that might sound cheesy. I guess you could call it the world's most fantastic stress reliever."

"No, that's wonderful," the woman said. "Our readers will love it. So... you could say, even inside that tiny space station, that right now you're freer than any of us."

"If you're talking in terms of physics, that's a certifiable fact."

Houston cut in. "At least until re-entry, when you'll have to rejoin gravity with the rest of us."

"Don't I know it," Danny retorted. "Houston, you're gonna enjoy that part, won't you?"

"We're happy anytime we bring our boys home safe," Houston replied. Danny rolled his eyes at the diplomatic answer, but in reality he knew that he would trust his life to the ground crew. _Did_ trust his life, on a daily basis. They would never let him down.

"Time to move on to the fun part of the job," Danny said with a glance at his suit's clock.

"Anything unclassified you can tell us about?"

"Calculations, telescope adjustment and data recording. Thrilling stuff, but I'd better wrap this little chat up."

"Thank you for your time," the woman said.

"Sure thing," Danny responded, tugging at the tether and sending himself drifting toward the space station's nearest hatch and airlock. "Anything else you want to ask me?"

"Just one more question." The microphone crackled, the voice distorted, became tinny and distant. Danny tapped at his helmet, trying to adjust the signal. "Whe01010 you going t0 stop dream1ng?"

Danny blinked, glancing around. His eyes were wide open. He was awake as anyone could be. "Uh, ma'am?"

"I s01101 you01 nee0d t101-"

It was really breaking up now, twisting with some eerie, high-pitched static. Adrenaline spiked through Danny's veins. It was probably nothing, just some minor interference, but.. "Houston, is there an issue with the feed? Status."

No answer.

He felt suddenly exposed. Space no longer felt empty and calm. It watched him, like a vast, unspeakable entity, its billion glittering eyes fixed on the lone intruder. Only a few bare layers of rubber, glass, and fabric separated him from the devouring void.

"Fent—0110 thi-ston, ove01001? 011ton, please cop001."

Danny yanked on the tether, launching himself toward the hatch. An icy chill crawled up his spine; his breath clouded inside his helmet, fogging the glass. Was his suit damaged?

Something was definitely wrong.

"Wake up," the woman snapped, her voice suddenly clear and sharp-and strangely familiar.

"Ma'am, I'll have to ask you to get off the line. There's a problem up here, Houston,and I don't know what it is."

"001019u've 000sgot t001102o wake 0100—wake up!"

"I..." the voice had changed completely, and even through the static, he recognized it. "Sam?"

Wasn't she studying art in Europe? Why was she in Florida?

"Damnit, Danny! _Wake up_!"

Danny sat upright with a gasp. His scalp burned with pain and he could feel something warm and wet trickling down around his ears. Sam-teenaged Sam- knelt next to him, wearing the heavy Fenton Gauntlets and holding a small, headset-like device.

He blinked at the thing stupidly. A thin semi-circle of metal, the interior ringed with tiny metal spikes that sparked and fizzed with electrical energy. They were coated in bright red liquid. Sam crushed it with steel fingers.

What the…

Wait. Danny ran his hand through his hair-no helmet, no headset, and it was longer than he'd thought. Messy hair that felt clumped and damp around his temples, where his head ached the sharpest. He looked at his hand. Streaks of red mirrored the spacing on the circlet.

Memory and knowledge crashed together, and it all began to make sense. He was still fifteen. He had never joined the space program. With the way his grades were trending, he never would. Not that it mattered anymore. The accident had changed everything. Danny Fenton, astronaut hopeful, was now Danny Phantom, ghost hero.

He glanced around and realized that he sat on the floor of the lab, right in front of the portal; the blast doors were closed, dented from the inside but still holding. The Specter Speeder listed on the floor next to them, dark with scorch marks.

Nocturne. The dream guy. He'd been caught. It was all a dream. All of it.

"Sam? Am I…" he trailed off, not sure what, exactly, he'd wanted to ask. _Am I back? _From where? He'd just been dreaming.

"No time!" Sam seized his hand and yanked him to his feet, tugging him up the laboratory stairs two at a time. "Nocturne is making a deal with Fright Knight, he's going to trap the whole town in nightmares! Tucker's stalling, but it's not gonna last. You've got to do something."

Danny transformed mid-stride just as they hit the kitchen. Cool energy swept over him, turning black to white, white to black. He changed from human to ghost, from boy to hero, in less time than it took to make a step.

Gravity vanished. For a split second, Danny felt like he was back in space. As a ghost, free from gravity, he had that same peaceful, weightless freedom. Then he glanced down at Sam's worried face, and it all fell back on his shoulders.

He had a job to do.

* * *

_end_

* * *

**A/N:** This was a phanniemay thing from a year or so ago, I think? I rather like it.

Thanks for your reviews, guys! I'm glad you're enjoying my little oneshot series. It's fun to bring out these stories that play with the wider world of Danny Phantom, instead of just the SoaD!verse with all its complicated character interplay. Which I enjoy, but it's fun to step out of that box a bit and do shortform fiction.

Till next time!

-Hj

* * *

ETA: Made some minor edits 4/15/16. Thank you **Amitra Day** for the concrit!


	5. The Lucky Ones

**The Lucky Ones**

* * *

_A slick winter frost, a horrific crash; it's a typical night on the bad part of Highway 10. For Kitty it brings back shadows of the past, but that's all they are: shadows._

* * *

Highway 10 at 3 am, fifteen miles out.

On an ordinary night, darkness held sway over the hills and fields, punctuated now and then by the red taillights of some night traveler on the way to more populated areas. Tonight, it blazed.

To the girl hovering fifty feet above the highway, the whole mess looked like a bright and festive carnival. Or maybe Christmas, especially with white snow blanketing the fields and people standing around bundled up in coats.

A string of brake lights flickered as cars inched by through a single lane; neon blue and red flashed from police cars and fire trucks. Floodlights set on tripods illuminated the fallen hulk of an eighteen wheeler. Framed against it lay a big white van, front smashed, engulfed in flame.

The girl above it all folded her arms inside her red leather jacket and watched.

The fire licked at the gutted van, turning everything not made of metal into glowing ash. Heat waves shimmered on its surface. Tongues of fire darted up to the sky and sent orange sparks floating off in the breeze.

Policemen picked their way through crumpled bits of car and took photos. Firemen zipped up black bags and loaded them onto stretchers. The van burned on, as if it were a portal straight to hell.

"Here again, babe?"

The girl hadn't even heard him ride up, though now the familiar purr of his bike cut through the roar of the flame. Kitty glanced back, tucking a lock of phosphorous green hair behind her ear. Her scarf should have caught the breeze and fluttered up from her neck, but it didn't. Sparks from the blaze danced around their ankles.

Kitty fixed her boyfriend with a wounded glare. "What's it to you? You're the one who up and left me." Probably after some girl. Again. Lousy jerk.

Johnny parked his bike on thin air and got off. "Don't get all in a twist, sis. Phantom was after me and I had to ditch him, fast. I wasn't trying to ditch you too."

"Well you did," she snapped, but looked him up and down, a twist of worry in her chest. He _did _look like he'd been roughed up— the knees of his jeans torn, a rip in his leather jacket that hadn't closed up yet, a bruise on his left cheek. "Where's Shadow?"

A scowl overtook Johnny's acne-pitted face. "Phantom wasted him. It'll take all night for him to come back."

Kitty took the news in silence. She didn't much care for Johnny's creepy partner, with its slanted red eyes and long fangs. It might protect them, but it left a trail of destruction wherever it went. Sometimes Kitty had felt its scarlet eyes on her; maybe it thought _she _was the bad luck charm.

Shadow could _stay _wasted, for all she cared. Johnny wouldn't like her to say that, though. He got a kick out of having someone to order around—which made Shadow a chump as much as a creep.

Putting his hands in his pockets, Johnny surveyed the light show below. "Another one, huh? It's that damn curve. Everybody takes it too fast."

Another breeze, another flicker of sparks swirling up with a flurry of snow. This time Kitty shivered, though she couldn't feel the cold or the heat. "That's the fun way, right Johnny?"

He gave her that cocky grin she'd fallen so hard for. "Only when you've got the skills, babe."

The black smoke from the van curled up behind him, almost like Shadow did. Kitty dropped her gaze. Something caught her eye in the confusion of movement below them. A stretcher on wheels rattled toward an ambulance; this one didn't carry a black bag. She floated toward it.

"Hey, where are you going?"

She ignored him, slipping into invisibility.

A grizzly-haired old man lay on the gurney. He wore stained brown coveralls and a shirt tarry-black with blood and burned clothes. A tattered trucker's cap hung from one hand. The other arm lay on his chest, hidden under bloody gauze. A kind-looking woman was placing an oxygen mask on his face.

He looked familiar, but Kitty couldn't place him, any more than she could feel the rush of smoke that blew through her as the wind suddenly changed and set all the paramedics coughing.

The old man's bleary, smoke-reddened eyes gazed unseeing in her direction, then drifted to something behind her and crinkled with pain. She followed his line of sight. A black van stood open, a thick-armed policeman holding the door against the wind. Five black bags lined the bottom of the van. A gurney rumbled over, carrying a sixth.

"This gloom and doom ain't my style." Johnny spoke right in her ear. He leaned on her shoulder, slinging an arm around her neck. "That old man's a lucky one, if he survived that mess."

Kitty scowled and stepped away, shrugging his arm off her shoulders. He had no right to be creeping on her like that. "Shut it, Johnny!"

"What's got you so worked up, huh?" Johnny crossed his arms and watched the black van pull away with flat disinterest. He didn't even bother to stay invisible, not that anyone looked their way. "So a few humans ate it. So what? It happens. Good luck or bad luck, there's always some loser on the way out."

"You're such a brute." She stalked off.

"Hey, hey… baby, don't be like that." He ran after her, jumping into her path. "You know I don't do serious— unless it's bein' serious about you, kitten." He caught her hand in both of his. "I don't like it when you're moping, it makes me crazy."

Kitty yanked her hand away. She wasn't _moping_, she was… it was normal to be sad over something like this, right? Human?

She couldn't remember. Her old life flickered like a silent movie at the back of her mind, scratched and uncertain, colorless, far away. Johnny she remembered. He was her anchor in a swampy sea of half-memories; flashes of rage, terror and exhilaration that had defined their last moments on earth. Riding with him was the realest thing she knew. Everything before that fell in shadow.

"Hey. Let's go for a ride, babe." Johnny put his hands on her shoulders, leaning down to catch her gaze. She glanced away, biting her lip. His arms slid down around her into an embrace; she couldn't bring herself to pull away. "Let's go, kitten. You and me. No girls, no cops, no fighting. Just us."

No red-eyed creep slipping along under their wheels? That sounded nice. It sounded right. Kitty shut her eyes and leaned into his chest. His leather jacket felt smooth and familiar against her cheek.

"Let's go see it," she said. "Then I'll go wherever you want."

"Okay, baby. Okay."

* * *

A guardrail stood just beyond the floodlights, where the highway made that dangerous, sharp curve, its yellow and black paint red with rust. An old wooden cross hung at a crazy angle from one of the support struts, weathered, its white paint peeling. A handful of fake flowers straggled out of the snow clumped at its base, sun-bleached and tattered from the constant breeze of passing cars.

A few cigarette butts clung to the flowers. Johnny picked them off and flicked them away, muttering, "Punks."

Kitty pushed her scarf over her shoulder and bent, tracing the frostbitten wood. She shivered at the slight vibration that rang through her at the touch, clear and final as a bell.

JOH — M—IAN — AND — KA —HL—-B—- RS

— LLED — D—BER— 13TH, 19—-

Someone had put this here. Who? A middle-aged woman with warm, crinkled eyes swam into her mind. Then Kitty realized that was only the paramedic's face. A kind-looking stranger. Nobody special. Not to her.

She crouched in front of the cross and wrapped her arms around her knees. "We were good for each other, weren't we Johnny?"

"Come on Kitten, we _are _great." Johnny leaned against the guardrail and puffed on a cigarette of his own, watching the green smoke wind up and mingle with the black smoke from the van fire. He kicked at the untouched snow a few inches below his boots. "We're just on a bigger highway now is all."

She'd just wanted to get away. From that miserable town, that cruddy life, the life she no longer really remembered. That's what she and Johnny did, in a way. Just… permanent.

"You, me and Shadow, we _own _the ghost roads."

"You and Shadow," Kitty echoed bitterly. "Your shadow's a creep, Johnny, and you know it."

"Phantom would've fried me yesterday if he hadn't been there. Is that what you want? Your Johnny toasted by some do-good loser?" He flicked the cigarette away and it died with a hiss in the snow.

Of course not, but a creep was a creep.

"You ever wonder where it came from?" she whispered. Maybe it was the part of Johnny she'd never seen, whatever he'd been running from when he'd found her.

"Everyone's got their dark side. Even you, Kitten."

She touched the cross again. It wasn't so bad. She had Johnny. Whatever luck they might have, good or bad, that part was over. No more black bags or wooden crosses. No more cruddy town and cruddy life. Just her and Johnny.

Johnny leaned down and offered her a hand.

She straightened without taking it and tossed her head, letting her curls bounce back from her face. "If I did have a dark side, I wouldn't carry _mine _around like a security blanket."

"Why you gotta be like that?" he shot back, annoyed again, but this time Kitty heard affection in it. Johnny drifted back to his bike. His pale green silhouette cast a faint light on the snow, untouched by shadows or the lights flashing further up the road.

Kitty straightened her scarf and went after him. "Somebody has to keep you straight, or that big head of yours won't fit in a helmet."

"Losers wear helmets, kitten." He mounted the bike and gave her that cocky grin. "Gotta feel the wind in our hair, see the sights."

Kitty climbed on behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist. "It's the fun way, right Johnny?"

"Only if you've got the skills, babe." He revved the engine. The bike roared off into the night, forging its own highway a hundred feet above the scorched asphalt and the van that still burned.

* * *

"Sir, just tell me what happened." Barbara, a cop in her mid-thirties, stood by the survivor's gurney with a notebook and all the composure she could muster.

The old man nodded. "I was driving, like usual. Getting into the redeye leg but I'd just had a coffee. Listening to 103 fm. Nice clear night. Only a few cars on the road. And then… then I— I saw—" The old trucker wheezed into the oxygen mask. "A shadow. A shadow right in front of me. I saw it clear as day, right smack in the middle of the road."

"A shadow."

"I know how it sounds. I _know _how it sounds, but—you have to believe me, officer, there was someone there. I saw her—a black shape, arms, legs. Eyes. God help me, eyes in a pitch black face like a demon peering outta hell."

The kind-faced paramedic stepped closer, squeezing the old man's hand and giving the officer a glare. Barbara understood the look, but she wasn't driving twenty miles out to the nearest hospital to get her witness statement, not when the old man was stable.

"I veered— kneejerk, you know. I felt sure I was gonna hit it—her—that black _thing_. But then the curve came up… and the van in the other lane... God help me." His face crumpled, creased with age and grief. The soot on his cheeks dripped down his chin. "Did _anyone_ make it out? Anyone at all?"

The cop dropped her gaze.

There'd be a trial, eventually. Charges of manslaughter brought against the trucker, even if they didn't stick. You couldn't tell that to a man with smoking black skin eating away at his shoulder, whose leg lay in a cooler on the off chance it might be reattached. She pocketed her notebook and touched his good hand. "Don't dwell on it, sir."

"Oh God, oh God… what'll I say to my daughters? I told them I'd drive safe. I told them..."

"You can take him now," the cop said to the paramedic.

"Those eyes said things," the man moaned as they loaded him into the ambulance. "They said such awful things. They blamed _me."_

Barbara sighed and trudged back to the patrol car, where her partner Hank was putting away his camera.

He shut the trunk and dug a crumpled pack of cigarettes out of his vest. "Get anything, Barb?"

"Yeah." She leaned against the patrol car next to him and watched as he lit up. "The trucker had some kind of… hallucination. Swerved and lost control of the vehicle, collided with the van. Too much coffee and not enough my sleep is my guess."

"At least there was a survivor this time." The tiny flame flickered in the icy December breeze. Hank shut the lighter. "Lucky guy."

Barb thought of the man speeding away in that ambulance, who—if he survived those injuries—would have to face the death of six people. "I don't know, Hank. Sometimes I think the ones that passed on are the lucky ones."

"Tell that to their families." The cop took a long pull, gazing down the dark stretch of asphalt. They regarded it with shared weariness; for some reason this particular road claimed more than its fair share of victims.

"Another one. It's unreal." They'd added warning signs, restricted the speed limit, but… something about it.

"It's that damn curve," Hank said. "Everybody takes it too fast."

* * *

_end_

* * *

**A/N:**

Written as part of the 2016 Christmas Truce on Tumblr for **myghostlywail**, who requested a Kitty story.

Thank you everyone for the lovely reviews! And shoutout to **AmitraDay** for the friendly concrit on the last chapter - I did go back and subtly change the last few paragraphs, which I think makes for a better read. :)

I've had fun with these short stories, and it's nice to compile them here on FFn where they're easy to find. I have maybe half a dozen more to add to this collection (slowly, as I can while I'm working on SoaD). Till next time!

-Hj


	6. Preferential Treatment

**Preferential Treatment**

* * *

_Vlad Masters comes to call: sometime kidnapper, full time creep. And he asks for tea. Set during Reign Storm._

* * *

"Can I get you something to drink?" Maddie offered, in tones of such crystalline sweetness you could have cut your hand on it. "Coffee?"

Vlad returned her brittle smile with one as elegant and predatory as a panther. "Tea for me, my dear, if it's not too much trouble."

Of _course _it was trouble. No one in the Fenton household drank tea unless they were dog sick. Even Danny had learned to make a good, strong cup of coffee even before he was allowed to drink any. Jazz had her cappuccino maker that Maddie and Jack had whipped up for her as a birthday present last year, but otherwise they all drank from the communal coffee pot stationed beside the sink.

They kept it meticulously cleaned and constantly in use even when the rest of the house lay in post-invention-marathon shambles. Nothing in the house was better maintained. No one questioned the family beverage.

Yet here was Vlad Masters, billionaire and sometime _kidnapper_, smiling that smug cat smile and asking for tea.

"Of course we'll get you tea, Vladdie," Jack cut in, throwing an arm over the smaller man and nearly bowling him over. "Can't let my best pal go thirsty!"

Maddie stalked into the kitchen and rooted out the teapot from the depths of a lower cabinet. She unearthed a few sad, flat little tea bags from a jar on top of the fridge, then set to boiling water on the stove. She could hear her husband's boisterous laughter echoing in from the living room.

Glaring icily at the pot didn't prevent it from boiling, any more than it cooled her simmering temper. The _nerve _of that man to show up uninvited and sit there chatting it up with Jack after what he'd put her and Danny through in Colorado...

Snatching up the pot and plunking in the teabags, Maddie turned on her heel and returned to the living room.

She'd _give _Vlad Masters his tea; all the tea that he could stand.

* * *

**A/N:**

Hey guys! Taking a quick break from writing SoaD to post this little snip of a oneshot. I always kind of loved the part of Reign Storm where Maddie pours boiling tea into Vlad's lap. This is my take on her thoughts leading up to that moment, originally written in 2014 for Phanniemay. Again, super short, but I think it says all it needs to.

Shout-out to **Chaoshift **for reviewing the Kitty chapter! I'm glad you liked it. :)

-Hj


	7. Critical Point

**Critical Point**

* * *

_Danny was trapped and dying. Maddie had only one chance: It didn't feel real, and that's what mattered._

* * *

This didn't feel real. An advanced double doctorate in physics and biochemistry had been a cakewalk for Maddie Fenton. The fact that ghosts were extradimensional beings formed from an amalgamation of ectoplasmic matter and electricity driven by post-human consciousness had come as a matter of course. That her son was a hybrid of one of these creatures had been a little harder to accept, but in a week it had become normalcy. That said half-ghost son would call her up on a Tuesday asking to leave school so he could help the US government contain a nuclear meltdown had struck her as amusing, not implausible.

But this… this didn't feel real.

Security checks and steel-plated hallways passed by Maddie in a blur. The aide beside her, a trim young man in a dark grey suit, kept talking. He wasn't making sense. This didn't feel real.

"Can't you do anything?" she asked again, stupidly, as if she hadn't heard the answer on the phone. During the helicopter ride. On the drive into the bunker. As the elevator sank her thirty floors into the earth. That depth would protect her from the thing about to kill her son. What they _said _would kill her son. It didn't feel real.

"We've estimated Phantom's position at around fifty meters from the core," the aide repeated with well-trained patience. "It's radiating so much heat at this stage that it's impossible for any human to withstand. Even if we did send in personnel, they would succumb to radiation poisoning before they reached his location."

"But there might be another way," Maddie said, turning to look at him fully. "That's why you brought me in, right? For my expertise. So I could help you find a solution. If I just knew more about the situation, then—"

The aide paled, taking a step back. His professional facade faltered. "I'm sorry— I — I thought the general was clear on the phone. You can't..." He squared his shoulders. "Ma'am, there's no way to stop the meltdown. There's no one we can send in. There's nothing you can do."

Maddie shook her head, resisting the urge to take this boy by the shoulders and shake him. "You brought me here, didn't you? I can do something, can't I? Why else would you fly me in?"

The young man hesitated. "We've still got radio contact with your son. The general thought you'd want to speak with him. Before… before the facility hits critical."

This didn't feel real.

"Ma'am, I'm sorry," the aide touched her shoulder. "If there was anything anyone could do, believe me, we'd be all over it by now."

He turned and walked on. Maddie followed.

A door opened. "In here, please."

Maddie drifted into the room. It was bland and unextraordinary: whitewashed walls, dense grey industrial carpet. A conference table took up the center of the room, lined with chairs and peopled with grim-looking men and women in uniform. A bank of computers stood against one wall, showing varying numbers and graphs. Even in her numb haze she recognized some of the figures and the scientific side of her mind filled in the blanks. _Critical. Irreversible. Imminent._

"Dr. Fenton, sir." the aide said.

"Ma'am?" The man at the head of the table stood up. Heavy-set, greying hair, with the clean-cut bearing of a longtime soldier. Deep lines carved up his tanned face, dividing tired eyes from a creased brow and a downturned mouth. "Thank you for coming."

"General Brand." She drew herself up and looked him square in the eye. "You brought me all the way here to tell me that you can't save my son?"

"We brought you in because he asked for you." The general sounded defeated, tired. Like he'd just lost a war. "You'll have my deepest regrets and a full briefing on our efforts in good time, but for Phantom, time's running out. Please. Attend to him first."

The general gestured to an open chair. A microphone sat in front of it. It didn't feel real.

Maddie sank into the seat and wrapped her hands around the mic. Someone pressed a button. A speaker came to life, hissing with the sound of distant machinery, punctuated by someone breathing.

She glanced around at the sober faces, then leaned in and spoke. "Danny? Can you hear me?"

"Hey Mom," her son's familiar voice crackled over the speakers.

The world snapped into focus: Real. All too real.

"How are you?" he added, absurdly.

"I—I'm fine, I—" she covered the mic and took a deep breath, steadying her voice. "Sweetie, are you sure you can't move?"

He laughed. "Pretty sure. There's about three tons of lead sheeting squashed on top of me." Lead was one of the few natural metals that resisted phasing. A scuffling sound,then a groan. "Or more like _into _me."

Maddie shuddered at that mental image. They had told her _trapped, _not _injured. _She shot a glare at the aide, who wouldn't meet her eyes. "Are you hurt?"

A long pause. "I can move my arm, and my head some."

That non-answer frightened her more than any details could. "Danny you _can't _stay there. You know what's going to happen, right?"

"Well yeah, that's why I came here in the first place. They couldn't stop this thing, just contain it. A few more minutes and…" Danny imitated an explosion. He paused. "Not like you'd really need a nuclear meltdown to finish me at this point," he added, almost too quietly to catch.

The room stood silent. Eighteen people. Generals, experts, high-ranking strategists, and none of them could help her son. The silence stretched on.

"I guess this is it, then. Wow. I thought actually dying would be cooler than this. And faster." His voice broke and he coughed to cover it up. That turned into a real cough, deep and wet that cut off with a pained whine.

Something in Maddie snapped at that sound. This could not happen. It couldn't be real. She couldn't bear it. Her baby lying under some miserable pile of scrap metal, counting down the minutes, _knowing_ he was dying, and—

Knowing.

Maddie froze. Suddenly she remembered a day long, long ago. A fishing trip gone awry, before she'd learned his secret, when she'd been more than happy to use her knowledge against the ghost boy. Ghosts _were _what they believed. Danny had that weakness, or that strength. If it didn't _feel _real… to him, at least…

She leaned forward and grabbed the mic. "Danny, listen to me."

"Mom?"

"There's something you have to know."

"If it's the secret ingredient to your cookies, I _know _what it is, and it's _really _gross."

"Danny, please. No jokes. Just listen."

"Okay." He sounded puzzled and a little worried. He was listening.

"You know your physiology is different from ours. I never told you how different. You aren't human. Not even a little bit. Right down to the cellular level."

"What are you saying?"

"You aren't alive in the sense that we are. You can't die here because you don't have that kind of existence anymore. You haven't for a long time." Maddie paused; that wasn't enough. She had to make it real to him. She had to be cruel. "The truth is… you died that day, Danny," she said softly. "You're an exceptional ghost, unique, amazing at masking your true form, but…"

The room fell silent. Eighteen people stared at her with horror in their eyes. _He's dying, _their gazes said. _Let him have this. _She ignored them.

Danny filled in the blank. A shuddering gasp came through the speakers. "You said no jokes, Mom. And this one's not funny."

"Believe me sweetie, I know. But I couldn't keep this from you anymore. You're a full ghost. Always have been."

"But— but I grew, I aged—"

"Just as Technus has advanced forms. Ghosts evolve, we have record of that."

"Vlad said—"

Maddie shrugged, though he couldn't see it. "Vlad did nothing but manipulate you to get what he wanted. What's one more lie?"

"If I'm full ghost, and you knew it, why didn't you hunt me?"

"Danny," and this she said with a wry smile that didn't quite make it to her voice, "you could be a card-carrying spawn of Satan and your father and I wouldn't love you any less."

"I guess that's true." A long pause. "So I'm dead." He sounded so dispirited.

Maddie shut her eyes. "Yes."

"Dead _hurts_."

"I know it does, sweetie, and I'm sorry."

She could hear him shifting. Something metal creaked ominously and he hissed in pain. "If this isn't killing me, then it's doing a pretty good imitation."

"It might hurt you, but it won't kill you. The lead, the radiation, the explosion… they can't destroy you, Danny. Nothing can."

Maddie cast her eyes around the room, daring anyone to challenge her. There were several experts here who could shoot her down right now, but they all seemed spellbound by her confession, too timid or too horrified to object.

"Your ecto-electric matrix exists on a plane of physical reality untouchable by the physical world. That's what gives you shape and consciousness. Your body doesn't matter. The ectoplasm doesn't matter. Even if every atom in your body gets blasted apart, you'll still exist."

"Molecule by molecule, huh," Danny muttered. "That's a pretty apt description of what's about to happen."

"It _won't _kill you," Maddie said again, forcefully. She gripped the mic so hard her knuckles popped. "It can't. Your consciousness will survive. You can reform yourself from raw ectoplasmic matter."

"Oh, that's great. I guess I'll just trot on over to the Ghost Zone once I get done not-dying in this radioactive explosion stuck under ghost-proof metal."

Maddie bit her lip, thinking quickly. The theories were there, and sound, but how could she impress them on Danny's mind in a few sentences? "Our dimensions exist simultaneously, Danny. Overlapping each other, not side by side. As a ghost you're not much more than an extension of the Ghost Zone into our own dimension. In a way you never leave it. Without a physical body to link you to this plane, you'll pass right between dimensions."

He tried to laugh. "You're getting way too metaphysical for a C student."

"It doesn't matter." He didn't have to understand; he just had to believe. "The important thing is that you can come back. You _will _come back. I know you will, Danny. You're the most powerful ghost I know."

It sounded awful, putting it that way. _Ghost I know. _As he if wasn't her own flesh and blood. How must that sound to a teenager barely old enough to leave the house, who was now dying, alone and in pain, with only a voice on the radio keeping him company? A voice that had just told him he had never been alive in the first place. His mother's voice.

"I get it, Mom. It's fine. I'm dead. I get it." A pause. "The radio's getting warm. It's gonna fry soon."

"You are a brave young man," the general said, sending a stern glance at Maddie. "You will be remembered for your service."

"Sure. Thanks, sir."

"Sweetie?"

"Still here. I'd say still alive, but," a rustle that might have been a shrug, "you know."

"I love you." Maddie hoped the words wouldn't sound hollow, after all that she'd just said. "I love you more than anything, Danny."

A deep sigh came through the radio. "Mom—"

The connection crackled and died.

Maddie clutched the mic, staring at it, as if she could will the connection back into existence. The room seemed darker somehow, going grey under the appalling white noise that hissed out of the speakers, unanswering.

"Was all that true?" someone asked in an awed whisper. One of the aides. He looked almost as young as Danny. Maddie stared at him. He had blue eyes. For some reason that cut deep.

"No," she said at last. "I lied." She dropped her head in her hands; she had either just saved her child's life or added useless anguish to his last few minutes. And she wouldn't know which for a long, long time, if at all.

"Why? If none of that was true, he's going to die anyway. Why would you do that to him?"

"Because it might save him," she said, not raising her head. "I just hope I lied well enough."

The bunker shuddered at a faraway explosion. The screens went white.

* * *

Months passed. Cleanup crews came and went. Memorials were held. Rebuilding began. A year later the first blades of grass pushed their way out of the blackened earth.

Two days after that, Danny Fenton stumbled out of the portal and collapsed in his parents' arms.

* * *

_fin_

* * *

**A/N: **

**Sarapsys** requested a followup to Overthinking It, which is posted separately here on FFn. That fic is a funny little oneshot I whipped up for Phanniemay a couple of years ago. This... is less funny, but it plays with the same idea. I hope you enjoy it!

Thanks for your reviews, everyone!

-Hj


	8. Keep Him Busy

**Keep Him Busy**

* * *

_Damon Gray has a plan to save the city from utter destruction, but at what cost? Set in the TUE future._

* * *

Damon's hands shook as he hastily spliced together wires under the blast-scarred Observatory console. The Fentons had been dead for three years; dust had clogged the machines, other parts had eroded from stray ectoplasm blasts. It was going to take a miracle to make it work. A miracle, and five more minutes. Five more minutes his daughter had to throw herself right into the fangs of death.

He grit his teeth and reached for another bundle of cables, trying to ignore the shouts and explosions that crackled in over the headset. "Valerie sweetie, hang in there."

* * *

Valerie snapped the hoverboard into another sharp turn, whipping around the side of the building just as the corner exploded in a spray of brick and mortar. Something hard smacked into her shoulder, knocking her off. Valerie twisted as she fell and fired off three shots.

The ghost stood there with that god-awful smirk, arms crossed, as the energy rays bounced harmlessly off a shimmering red shield. Whatever had turned Phantom into this... this thing, it had made him stronger. Much stronger.

As the pavement rushed toward her, Phantom's shield evaporated and he pointed a finger. Valerie heard her board zooming back around and she grabbed it, flinging her body up and to the side. The ectoblast seared by, so close she could feel its heat through her thick leather suit.

He laughed at her, applauding. "Nice moves! You could have been in a circus. I know just the clown, too."

Valerie sped off on her sled, seething; this wasn't a fight. Not even close. He was _toying _with her. She knew the instant he started taking her seriously she was dead. But she had to keep his attention, no matter what, for five more minutes. What was left of Amity Park depended on it.

* * *

"Keep stalling princess, I've almost got it." Damon murmured into the headset. Valerie didn't respond, not that he'd expected her to. She had to keep every ounce of attention on the fight. It terrified him; he knew that Phantom could rip her to shreds easier than paper. If anyone else had any chance against him, he never would have agreed to this.

Things had changed. In this new, dangerous world he'd come to rely on her as a friend and ally just as much as a daughter. He had to bite back sharp words when she took unecessary risks and his hair turned a little grayer each time she came back bloody and bruised - but he needed her. All of Amity Park did. Too often Valerie had been the only one standing between people and a violent death.

This was the last time, he swore to himself as he heard another crash over the headsets. Once the shield was up, they could protect themselves. It wouldn't all lie on the shoulders of his still very young, brave, reckless daughter.

Damon's hands raced across the keyboard as he input the necessary parameters. He had to make choices on the fly - there was no time for careful calculation, even though being wrong could mean everything.

Suddenly the half-collapsed wall exploded inward. "You thought you could trick me, old man?"

Damon whirled, snatching up the ecto-blaster from behind his seat. Phantom stood at the doorway. Raw terror struck Damon; when was the last time he'd heard anything from Valerie? How long ago? He couldn't remember.

A crimson blast of energy hit Damon before he could pull the trigger. The impact flung him halfway across the room, smashing into a pile of old equipment. _Nothing vital, _his brain supplied numbly as he gazed down at the tattered blood and bone that had just seconds ago been his right arm. _It will still work. All I have to do is turn it on._

"You think I don't know what you're up to?" The ghost kicked the twisted remains of the blaster out of Damon's mangled hand-Damon screamed as pain knifed up his arm, sending splinters of white fire into his vision. "I know every inch of this house. What it holds, what it can do. How dare you invade this place! How _dare_ you try to use it against me?!"

Another kick, this one licking with green flames. Damon felt his ribs crack and buckle. Air rushed from his lungs and refused to return. He toppled, and the last kick caught him in the face -

Time and sound and every other sense vanished, lost in a piercing agony that drove its claws into the depths of his brain-then it all came rushing back, hot blood running down his cheek, the crazed laughter of the monster that stood over him, the ops center floor that was vanishing in a bottomless well of black...

_No_! His mind scrabbled against the darkness. _Not yet_.

Damon staggered to his feet, half blind and with blood roaring in his ears, pouring out of his arm with every pounding heartbeat. He turned and stumbled to the console.

The ghost scoffed, watching him struggle to cross the room. "It's pointless. You're dead."

"I don't care," Damon wheezed. "You've lost."

He raised his remaining fist and slammed it on the activation button. The ghost's red eyes widened in realization. It screamed in fury, leaping forward - but it was too late.

* * *

Valerie woke to the distant sound of sirens. Her body ached. Her mouth felt thick and sticky, and her nose filled with the scent of scorched wood and pulverized bricks. Her vision blurred into focus, battling the ache in her head. The sky... was green?

She coughed, feeling tenderly at the bruises around her throat. Phantom had caught her, was throttling her, his eyes lit up with the joy of seeing the life drain from hers, and then -

Darkness. Pain. A half-felt wave of energy, flowing cool and strong over her body.

Valerie sat up gingerly, cradling her arm, which was burned, and looked up. The glimmering green sky above the rooftops confirmed it. The ghost shield was operation. Phantom was gone. Damon Gray, security expert, had worked his magic. Amity Park was safe.

"Daddy, you did it!" A grin spread across her face, and she fiddled with the headset still wound around her ears. He was probably frantic to hear from her; the connection must have cut out when... her fingers stilled.

"_Keep stalling princess, I've almost got it."_

_Phantom, hands wrapped around her throat, holding her face to face, close enough to hear. His eyes narrowed with suspicion. Then that smile, that awful smirk. He flung her away, her head bounced painfully against the pavement -_

Valerie pushed down a sudden wave of terror; Dad was fine. How could he not be? She stood up. The jet sled was destroyed, a smoking hole smashed through it. She turned toward the center of the city, still thumbing the headset's controls.

She couldn't get anything but static. She ran.

* * *

_end_

* * *

**A/N:**

Originally written as a drabble prompt for **proserpine-in-phases** wayy back in August 2013. Wow, time flies. I've always been curious about how Damon got the scars we see him with in TUE, so this was my interpretation.

Thanks to **sarasanddollar** for help titling this fic! And thanks for your reviews, everyone! I've got a few more of these lying around, so there's definitely more to come... not all of them are sad, I promise. Mostly. ;)

-Hj


	9. Crank Call

**Crank Call**

* * *

_Paulina answers a late call from a strange number, and it might just make her night._

* * *

The phone rang. Paulina rolled over and moaned, glancing at the Sayonara Pussycat clock on her dresser, which winked a cheerful 2:05 at her in glowing pink numerals. The phone rang again. At two in the morning. This had better be good.

She slipped one arm out from under the covers and snagged her cell phone. "Hello?"

_"Congratulations, you've won a_–_"_ A snicker, then the speaker cleared his throat and said in a deep, smooth announcer's voice: _"You've won a hot date with our resident ghost hottie, the steaming_–_"_

An intense, muffled discussion ensued. Stupid boys and their stupid jokes. Didn't they know she needed her beauty sleep? It wasn't easy maintaining a flawless complexion. Paulina huffed and fumbled for the end button.

The voice resumed. _"Ahem! The ice-cool, chillest ghost guy in Amity Park, will come to your house this Saturday to_–_"_ A pause.

Paulina paused too, curious despite herself. Did he mean… the ghost boy? What kind of joke _was _this?

_"What time's good for you?"_ The caller asked, voice faint and off-receiver.

_"I don't know, seven?"_ A new voice responded, strangely echoey. "I thought this was all hypothetical."

_"I want to be 'hypothetically' accurate, dude."_

Paulina sat bolt upright, holding the phone close. She _knew_ that voice. It was Phantom. Phantom was on the line. Well, Phantom and some lame guy, but more importantly- a date? "Phantom's going to be _where _Saturday night?" she demanded, turning up the phone volume as far as it would go.

Another pause, longer this time. Phantom spoke again. _"Oh my gosh are you actually in a call right now? Was that Paulina? Did you actually call her?"_

_"Dude, I totally did!"_

"_Are you serious?! You are so dead!_"

A crackle, a few thumps and thuds, then the first boy's voice returned, in a raspy whisper that somehow still dripped with glee. _"Phantom will be at your place Saturday night, so you'd better be dressed to chill and ready for–"_

_"Don't listen to him!" _The phone buzzed and crackled weirdly as the voice got closer. _"Whatever he's saying, he's lying!"_

A louder thump, then a groan. _"This is what I get for playing wingman?!"_

_"It's not 'wingman' if you make it like a crank call, you nerd! It's two am! Give me that!" _More thuds and thumps, but Paulina didn't care.

"Phantom?" She cooed into the receiver, and the scuffling came to a sudden halt.

_"Uh, hi Paulina, whom I barely know." _He sounded a little out of breath and completely flustered. It was adorable. _"So sorry about this, some people don't know when to quit!" _This was punctuated by another thump and a distant snicker.

Paulina clutched the phone; no way she was letting this opportunity slide, no matter what happened. "Who cares? Let's do it!"

_"I… really? Well, uh… okay then! Seven's good?"_

She muffled a squeal. "It's a date!"

* * *

~ end ~

* * *

**A/N:**

Hi everyone! Another one that's short and sweet. Felt the need for something light and silly after all the angst in the last few contributions to this collection. Thanks for your reviews on the preceding chapters! I'm having fun with these little side stories.

Reposted from Tumblr. Thanks to the guys at Slack for doing prompts with me, and **chintastic** for the proofread!

-Hj


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